


Convalescence

by pentagonbuddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Dubcon Kissing, M/M, Mild Blood, Vomiting, trans linhardt but blink and you'll miss it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21425854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: Reluctant as he is to part with the velvet box, Hubert sets it on the table between them, then slides off the couch to kneel at Linhardt’s side. “Can’t I be worried about an old friend’s health?”“No.“ One eye cracks open to stare, its slit pupil a knife pointed his way. “You wouldn’t come all this way for something so trite.”
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35
Collections: Sanguine Throne (Edelich) AU Multiverse





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [copingcapricorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copingcapricorn/profile) and [Archaeopteryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx) for help with edits! This is set in an AU cooked up by [charbroiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charbroiled/pseuds/charbroiled), where Edelgard ate Rhea's bone marrow and gained magic blood that gives people draconic/vampiric traits, among other things.
> 
> An update, much time later: If you're interested in more like this, [Contagion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367366/chapters/58767214) is a fic in the same narrative thread that focuses on Linhardt in this AU! Chapter 1 is Linhardt POV of this fic with some changes.

The fetid air of Enbarr, a mixture of life and death and everything in-between as people rise and fall from its gutters, is almost refreshing to Hubert after his time in the palace. He can never truly relax outside of its confines—not while Lady Edelgard is left in the far too delicate hands of von Aegir—but to see the common folk live on reminds him of the purpose in his work, in the Emperor’s work. Her Majesty suffers so that the nobility remain under her heel, suffers to free them from the tyranny of the inhuman even as monsters still walk freely among them. But then, humans have always had to contend with monsters among their ranks.

Hubert would know; he is one of them.

Few things make him so keenly aware of this fact as the hazy silhouette of the Hevring Institute, gilded with the hope to build a better future. Its alchemical tower is a landmark of the city, stretching through the fog as if to snatch knowledge from the heavens themselves, and though a second tower pierces the earth below, few know of its existence.

A guard nods to him as he enters; his eyes flick to the velvet-wrapped box in Hubert’s hands. It takes more self-control than it should to refrain from hissing and drawing the box closer to his chest. Instead, he nods in return and strolls past into the Institute. Habit compels him to stick to the shadows as he passes through the entrance hall, its vaulted ceilings amplifying the echo of scholars at work, just as habit compels him to study the exit routes once he reaches the elevator.

One of Hanneman and Linhardt’s inventions, this thing. Hubert flips open the control panel and traces the appropriate sigil with his finger. The magic flares to life, casts sharp shadows onto the angles of his face before it fades.

He traces it again, checks and re-checks his memory to make sure he still knows the pattern for Linhardt’s quarters—a modified Crest of the former Saint Cethleann—only for his lips to tighten into a frown when the panel fails to comply.

“He’s not accepting visitors right now.”

A woman, small in stature yet no less regal in her bearing for it, steps beside him. Her milk-white hair, most of it hidden under a black veil, and the intensity of her lavender eyes remind him too much of Her Majesty. No, she is Lysithea of house Ordelia, now a professor of the highest tier. He would do well to remember this.

Lysithea brushes past him and draws her own sigil into the control panel; the elevator hums with magic for a moment before its accordion-style gate slides open. He follows her inside.

“Professor Ordelia,” he says while the gate closes, “are you not a visitor here, yourself?”

She crosses her arms and looks away. The elevator lurches—along with his stomach—as gears and unseen forces propel it upward.

“Shouldn’t the Empire’s spymaster already know?”

“If it is not the Empire’s business, then it is none of mine.”

Such irreverence. Tolerable, when directed at him. He has no formal authority over her actions and, in theory, she is of no threat to Her Majesty. Her thorn-tipped words are of no consequence so long as they only poke and needle, but even so…Hubert’s grip on his velvet-draped box tightens. She has yet to partake of the Emperor’s blessing, at Edelgard’s own insistence. The choice is freely given to Lysithea, unlike so many others; a result of the shared pain between her and his lady, he suspects. One of the ways Her Majesty can be compassionate to a fault.

Lysithea tries to suppress a cough.

Unless she yields she will die, and far sooner than she wants to. He knows this. Edelgard knows this. Lysithea certainly knows this. There are lines even he refuses to cross, however, and her freedom to choose is one of them.

The elevator stops with another lurch. Hubert grabs the railing beside him, his white-knucle grip hidden under his gloves, while his other hand clutches the box.

“You ought to do something about that cough of yours,” he whispers as she crosses the elevator’s threshold.

She stalks off without so much as a glance towards him. “Mind your own business.”

◆◆◆

Lysithea had stopped the elevator at one of the floors dedicated to laboratory work. The path to Linhardt’s quarters from here passes shelves of vials and implements and rooms that reek of chemicals, of magic, of blood. That particular copper-tinged scent is everywhere these days.

Hubert spares a moment to close his eyes and inhale. If it’s not the Emperor’s, then it is only filth and smells as such.

It’s difficult to ascertain the Institute’s current research from this informal stroll, though so far it matches up with what the director claims in his reports—they are studying the transformations wrought by Her Majesty’s blood—but then he knows Linhardt has his personal work as well.

The removal of Crests. Admirable, but dangerous. Regretfully dangerous.

It must be done sooner or later, but not a moment too soon, lest they shatter this facsimile of peace they’d sacrificed so much for. His chest feels like he’s squeezed between his own pliers as he approaches Linhardt’s quarters.

Though he knocks, there is no response. He waits a polite amount of time before trying the doorknob, scowling at how it turns in his grasp. For all that one can say about Linhardt’s sleeping habits or how he applies himself, he’s neither lazy nor careless. Even if he’s in the room, an unlocked door implies at least one of those, however, or the sort of lapse in attention that invites trouble.

He eases the door open and slips inside.

Ever one to prize efficiency, Linhardt’s office and personal quarters are bundled into adjacent rooms. 

Hubert spies the director himself on the other side of the office, where he reclines against the elegant arch of a chaise lounge. Something about how his green robes overflow onto a pus-yellow rug is...ugly.

No, Hubert has never paid much attention to something as petty as _decor_—flames, he's spending too much time with Ferdinand—and so ugly isn’t quite the right word. Uncomfortable, perhaps. It’s not due to the colors, either, but the way Linhardt’s limp wrist hangs off the edge while his other hand is curled against his chest.

Sleeping, perhaps. If Linhardt were in his bedroom this could be an opportune time to inspect some of the books stuffed into the many shelves in the room, or check his desk for hidden compartments, or perhaps look under the rug. Ah, but Linhardt wouldn’t bother hiding anything there—he’d have to move the table on top of it. Solid wood. Mahogany, perhaps. Undoubtedly heavy.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Hubert.”

Vexing how those words jostle his heart even as his body remains still.

“Good evening, Director Hevring,” he says, careful to keep his tone even as he takes a seat on a nearby couch. His gaze lingers on a delectable red smear at Linhardt’s mouth.

“What do you want?” Eyes still closed, Linhardt waves one hand in a vague gesture. “Can’t you see I’m rather busy?”

Reluctant as he is to part with the velvet box, Hubert sets it on the table between them, then slides off the couch to kneel at Linhardt’s side. “Can’t I be worried about an old friend’s health?”

“No.“ One eye cracks open to stare, its slit pupil a knife pointed his way. “You wouldn’t come all this way for something so trite.”

“All this way,” Hubert says, “when I haven’t even left Enbarr.”

Linhardt stares at the ceiling. “If you just wanted to know about my health, you could have sent a messenger. That would’ve been easier for us both.”

Is his presence that repulsive? The question stings at the tip of Hubert’s tongue, but he swallows it down. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“Leave it on my desk.”

For someone who left his door unlocked, he’s rather guarded. That won’t do, at least not to this degree, and so Hubert pulls one of his own gloves off one finger at a time. One of Linhardt’s hands dangles from his seat with corpse-pale fingertips peeking from his sleeve; Hubert lifts those fingers, turns Linhardt’s hand over to inspect his wrist. Some misguided impulse tells him to kiss the delicate area where blue veins run under skin, ever-flowing rivers that he could drink from to prove his devotion.

“It’s far too precious to simply leave,” Hubert says, rubbing circulation into Linhardt’s hand.

If he fed from this man the blood would be far from ever-flowing. Especially now, when he seems to have been cutting himself off from the Emperor’s generosity for at least a month. Probably longer, though if he’s delusional he hides it well.

“Oh, then I’m overwhelmed by gratitude right now.” Linhardt jerks his hand away. “I’ll take a look once I’m feeling better.”

Hubert stands, pulls the velvet away from the box on the table. Nestled inside its confines is a vial that tightens his throat and makes his palms itch. Linhardt reacts much the same way, his slit pupils blooming wide as he watches Hubert remove it.

“This will help.” He leans over Linhardt, his bare hand behind his back in a mockery of a bow. Best to keep the vial in his gloved one, for a putrid impulse pleads with him to rip the cork out and drain the blood inside. “I thought it best to deliver myself, seeing as how you’re so busy you forgot to attend last month’s banquet.”

“I commit a crime and you come here to reward me?” Linhardt’s eyes droop shut; he turns his head away. ”How very unlike you.”

Hubert rolls the vial between his thumb and index finger. “It has yet to be declared a crime. Merely...regrettable.”

“_I_ certainly don’t regret it. Besides, you’d do the same if you could.”

Linhardt shifts on the couch; a crease his brow calls to Hubert, tells him to smooth it away. There’s a handkerchief in his pocket, free of chloroform at the moment. The vial still in one hand, he fetches his handkerchief and kneels once again at Linhardt’s side. Though Linhardt’s extremities are cold, his forehead is fever-hot as he dabs at it.

“You need her blood far more than I,” Hubert says. 

He’d only allowed himself this small amount from Her Majesty, enough to remind Linhardt of this need. Once free from her scrutiny Hubert had licked the glass clean—the sanguine taste of it surges through his memories.

How much worse is it for Linhardt?

“Those banquets are vile things, aren’t they? An abattoir posed as a feast. I’ll confess”—he replaces the handkerchief with his lips, which Linhardt tilts toward—”that I, too, would prefer not to attend.” Another memory seeps past blissful thoughts of his Emperor’s blood: sycophants who imbibe it in front of his face, who flaunt their ecstasy while he and Her Majesty watch. Suffer. Ache.

That same ache stirs in him now.

“Much like you, I’d rather partake in my own way.”

“A way that satisfies all sorts of cravings.” Cold as it is, Linhardt’s laugh kindles warmth in Hubert, all the more soothing for its sarcastic bite. “That would explain the personal visit.”

The fantasy is infectious: his teeth in her—no, _his_—wrist, and since he is not Her Majesty Hubert would then bandage the wound, tend it with kisses before allowing Linhardt to heal it with his own magic. He is not Her Majesty but they have similar bodies, and if Linhardt allowed it then it would be simple enough to hike up his robes, fit his head between his thighs—But this man is not Her Majesty. He would do well to remember this.

He wipes the blood from the corner of Linhardt’s mouth. Not just blood, but vomit, acrid and sour in his own mouth when he licks his thumb. “Do you really think I’d come _all this way_ for something so _trite_?”

Now is the time for banter, sarcasm, even just a wry smile.

Instead, a sigh. “If it was convenient enough, yes.” Linhardt’s glazed-over eyes follow him as he stands. ”Just how desperate are you, Hubert?”

_Desperate_, Linhardt calls him. Not worried, or concerned, or even _pragmatic_. Hubert endeavors to rid himself of pride, but the remnants of it sting. His grip on the blood-filled vial tightens as he leans down and kisses Linhardt, who parts his lips for Hubert to indulge in the lingering taste of their Emperor. He climbs onto the lounge, partially straddles Linhardt with one knee braced against its back while his other leg remains on the floor. This isn’t what he’s here for, he reminds his reflection in Linhardt’s dilated pupils. Tearing his gaze away, he uncurls his fist and focuses on the vial instead. Even the cork smells divine between his teeth as he seizes it; once it’s open he uses his dwindling self-control to allow himself one sip. _One_.

Cold—somewhat coagulated—yet no less intoxicating. Linhardt’s tongue, his mouth, his entire body tempts Hubert to suck him dry as they share her blessing in a feverish communion while Linhardt’s misery mixes into the taste, tainting it with a rancid flavor that does little to curb Hubert’s enthusiasm.

He only stops once Linhardt takes him by a chunk of his hair, yanking him back to force distance even as he strains against the hold. The pinpricks of pleasurable pain urge him to pull, struggle, moan; Linhardt snatches the open vial, then shoves him off the lounge. Though Hubert catches himself on the edge, a well-placed slipper in his chest tumbles him backwards. 

The empty glass slips from Linhardt’s trembling fingers. “Disgusting,” he spits.

Finally he stands, legs shaking, loose hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. His eyes shine green in the dim light as an animal startled in darkness. It shouldn’t matter for anyone—Linhardt especially—to wrinkle their nose at him as they would a boil in need of lancing. If it were Her Majesty, perhaps, but this is merely Director Hevring.

Sentiment, however misplaced, guides Hubert back into the hallway. The door shuts behind him with a quiet _click_, though not long after Hubert leans his against it there’s muffled retches from the other side. Wet, ungrateful splatters, too. A weaker man would fling the door open to suck this blasphemy from the rug. Someone like himself merely sets his jaw and walks down the hall.

The investigation could wait, and anyway, he’s learned enough for now. Their Empire is built from suffering; suffering is what inspired Lady Edelgard to spill her blood in the first place for the sake of a better tomorrow, but if Linhardt drinks too deeply from such a contagion that would be…

Regrettable.

Linhardt is far more likely to wither away than spread that rebellious attitude of his; surely he’d think it too much effort for too little reward. Let the director do as he pleases, Hubert will tell Her Majesty, for his work may still be of value to the Empire.

He brushes a red smear from the corner of his own lips. Slips his glove back on. Writes and rewrites the report in his mind and debates whether or not to suggest pardoning Linhardt from the banquets, not because he is an old friend, but simply to inoculate him against treason. Though traces of Her Majesty’s blood revitalizes him, it’s Linhardt’s bitter taste in his mouth. Quite the unique flavor, stronger than his best coffee though far less palatable. Perhaps this is the last time he’ll know it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm part of the [3H rarepair discord server](https://discord.gg/SPeGQcm), which you can check out for all sorts of goodies if you're into less common pairings like, say, linbert


End file.
